


The Brink

by Path



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Asphyxiation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-25
Updated: 2011-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:20:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Path/pseuds/Path
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been some time now since you first began what you suppose you must call your blossoming relationship with Pickle Inspector. And it has been some time since someone has asked you to hurt them.</p><p>(Sequel to Rabbit in the Room.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Been meaning to do a Droog sequel for some time. Thanks to varietyshow and dreadelion who gave me a different kink to get me writing it.
> 
> This was really hard, because throat injuries _really squick me out_

It is a quarter past three on a Sunday, and you have your hands full.

Literally, in this case, not that you are given to a language heavily-laden with metaphor. You prefer things clean, elegant in stripped simplicity. Precision begets ease; much care will result in little effort. That is your mantra, and your life lived by it is a rewarding one.

Your overcoat is folded carefully over a nearby chair, with your scarf and hat neatly piled on the seat. Your vest hangs open, your tie casually loose, and your shirtsleeves are rolled up to your elbows. You are kneeling on the bed, and you have Pickle Inspector's throat clenched in your hands. His own hands grasp feebly at your wrists, but with not nearly enough strength to give you pause.

His body makes an arch like a violin bow strung too tight, tensed below you. His lips are the faintest shade of blue, just a watercolour wash over his usually pallid skin. It matches his eyes, that watery weak blue, and complements what you charitably call his clothing. As usual, for your tea time visits, he wears a pale blue corset and thin panties, and looks awkwardly long and coltish in them. They do not suit him, exactly. But his mortification and fetishized need for it more than make up for it. If there is anything you like to see in another human being, it is obvious and honest weakness. It makes you feel smugly superior and extremely good about yourself.

He chokes and gasps in another half-breath of air. You are allowing him little; you have an excellent understanding of human requirements, having made it your profession to deny them to people. He is not yet on the edge of unconsciousness- close, but not quite. Instead, you are keeping him hovering in the dizzying range of euphoric high, where his brain leaps into hallucination and pleasure in a sharp contrast with the pain of his body.

You are extremely fond of this. You idolize the mind. Impassive logic is your forte. It's one of the reasons you like the Inspector, for all his horribly disjointed manner grates on your love of cool class. He is barely a man on the best of days, rabbity and fearful, tripping over nothing and upsetting everyone around him. All the same, you cannot say he is not intelligent. He is painfully so. He is, you know, and it seems nobody else does, a genius.

It is truly that simple. There are prices to pay for that spark, and the Inspector's ruined life is his. You do not think he was always shy; aside from him, you are the smartest person you know, and you have the benefit of distance to analyze human nature from. His problem is distraction. He gets thinking, and the rest of his world dims away until it is nothing but mind and what happens there. Then, called back to a reality drably-coloured by comparison, the shock jars him. The changes frighten him. He is afraid of chastisement, yes, but he is also afraid of his own head, and where it takes him.

He is a bundle of neuroses, your Inspector. You would not have it any other way. He is far too beautifully manipulable. You have no idea how you resisted as long as you did, with him sitting there pouring tea and practically taunting you with his shaking nerves. You wanted to pull him in. You wanted to wreck him.

And you have, that unexceeded day you walked in on him and his little dress-up habit, consorting with his female companion's clothing and his own acute shame. You had a very difficult time not throwing him to the ground and destroying him; it would have been so easy. As it was, you restrained yourself, reined in your personal passions and used his. You still daydream of leaving him on the cold floor, ruined and sobbing and irreversibly insane. You have driven more stable people to that brink before.

But, in the end, you were very glad you didn't. Flexing your personal power is one thing; taking away the chance for the only relationship you can really term worthwhile is quite another, and you have no intention of indulging in it. The Inspector is far too... yes, you will use the word "precious"... to you now to really want to unmake him.


	2. Chapter 2

You shift, moving your right hand over the jugular and pressing there. You didn't really need to use both hands- one is actually more than enough with him. A wisp of a man, a shadow. And besides, this frees your left to explore him and heighten the pleasure of the twin pleasure-and-pain of this experiment.

It is an experiment, of course. You warned him, very openly and very honestly, about your preferences, and yet, only a few meetings in to what you suppose you will term your blossoming relationship, he told you.

"You said..." he paused, clearly nervous. "You said, when, ah, the first time, that you'd like to." He stopped, a handful of words away from a sentence, and his next were halting, and very quiet. "Hurt me."

You paused, teacup halfway to your lips, and did not need to think on this. "Yes," you replied.

"How... how badly?" he asked next.

"Any amount," you answered truthfully. "What do you believe you can handle, Inspector?"

"I... I don't know," he admitted, flushing a lovely tone and scrunching the fabric of his trousers in his hands. You'd correct him, but his clothes are so ill-fitting there's really no saving them now. "I just thought. You've been... I mean, you've done so m... you spend a lot of time just pleasing me," he rushes at last. "I just wanted to. Erm. If there was anything you wanted."

And you had an open invitation. It was excruciatingly tempting. He could count the tiles in the ceiling of his asylum room by the time you were done with him. Something in you ached at the thought, deep and low and barely awakened, and instantly, you knew you needed to. You needed to hurt him, and despite the fact that physical contact was rarely a source of pleasure for you, you needed to fuck him.

You had set your tea down and pulled him here, his wreck of a room, and ordered him into his special clothes, thin and vulnerable and oddly, disjointedly attractive on him. And then you pushed him down to the bed, and began by touching him, hands over every part of his body to remind him that he was entirely yours. Only then, when he was fully aroused and whimpering for your touches, did you kneel above his ribs and wrap your fingers around his throat, and begin to watch him struggle.

You have no idea how he thinks he can trust you. He could not have asked a worse person to tea if he'd requested your last employer's presence, or old Kingpin's. It's not that you haven't spelled it out for him before, in both your amusing tea parties and your sessions with him in the bedroom. You have to assume he does not understand, or that he chooses not to. Now, as he fumbles long fingers on yours and loses the feeling in his lips, surely he must understand a little more. You didn't give him a safe word, because _he is not safe_.

All the same, as his eyes tip on the edge of rolling upward, you take one hand away. He doesn't know how quickly you could have put him out. But then, had you intended on hurting him, you would not have begun by removing his consciousness. At least, if you intended on hurting him badly. As harm goes, his experience today will really only brush the surface of your personal pleasures. Otherwise, you would certainly not get the pleasure of repeating the process. And you would be forced to heat up your own tea afterwards.

And, you admit, you do not entirely want to enact them on him. But you decide to disregard this for the moment.


	3. Chapter 3

He gasps a little more air in, colour moving for a moment closer to pink than blue. You keep control; you really don't need two hands to control the Inspector, and certainly not when you're straddling his hips (which are painfully thin and extremely appealing in the blue silk you insist he wear). His cock is of course long since hard and pushing against his weak panties to bump between your legs. You've done an excellent job in your last few meetings in hiding just what a reaction the Inspector has on you, but no longer, you know. If he wasn't preoccupied with what your single hand on his throat has been doing to his brain and body, he would no doubt have noticed your own uncontrolled erection. However, he has been very preoccupied, and you only intend to make it worse. Surprises are likely to make him panic, but you don't apply them liberally, and a good dose of panic is extremely conducive to the kind of good time you usually enjoy.

You trail your other hand down his body- twist an exposed, hard nipple, stroke sweaty hair out of his eyes, dart between both your legs to tease him. You are alternately caretaking and arousing, and the mixed sensations have the effect you expect from him, a desperate keening need. He finds some hold with his straining feet and grinds his hips into you. Unexpectedly, your own body shudders in response, your shaft protests being locked inside your trousers, and for once, when met with temptation, you immediately give in.

You lean down and kiss him. It is the first time in a very long time that you've ever kissed anyone, and against all your personal expectations, you actually enjoy it. Subtly, you increase pressure, lean slightly on your hand. You caress his trembling lips in yours and deny him air, and the strangled sound he makes before his consciousness briefly flees is tangible perfection.

Before he regains sense, and it would be only moments once you let up pressure, you kiss him once more, fully and passionately, and place a second kiss on the soft spot below and a little behind his ear. So vulnerable, this wisp of a man. And yours, entirely yours. For a second, something unfamiliar wells up inside you.

But you have given yourself little time, and you have a small obsession with making things just so, so that an observer may assume perfection on your part. You have only the one observer, but it is all the more important thus that his experience be flawless. You get off him and stand, stripping quickly out of your slacks, vest, tie, shirt. Regretfully, as Inspector's sounds turn from desperately deep but regular breathing into a sudden sharp gasp of awareness, you leave your clothes in a draped pile on the floor; no time to fold them. You seize the bottle from far back inside the second drawer to the left; something you know he keeps there in a sort of faint hope and overwhelming fear that someone might use (the knowledge of which you pulled out of him in one of your past sessions). And then your time is up, and you flip him over before he is fully aware where he is. You weave your fingers into the mess that is his hair, and place the bottle, open, out of his line of sight, but within easy reach. No use panicking him again, so quickly.

"On your hands and knees," you tell him dispassionately, forcing distance between you again. He shivers and stirs, and looks as if he will curl in a ball and hide. His scant moments of unconsciousness haven't diminished his erection any, however, and you reach around him and begin stroking it, long smooth sweeps that just brush the tip, still clad in increasingly wet silk. You forget you must be very careful with reward with him. One push too far, and he will just shatter. You reel him back in, and it is really no time at all before he's moaning again, whimpers that make your insides curl with pleasure. "Inspector," you remind him. "Get on your hands and knees."

And he does, then. He is wonderfully obedient, and when you balance out punishment and reward (or, as is more common, mix them), you have begun to get the impression that you will be able to make him do anything. Not that you want to- not right now. The beautiful thing about your relationship with him is that he is so innocent in his way, so devoid of corruption and lust, that everything you do is a surprise. All you've done for the last four sessions is stroke him off, and even that seems like it will never pale for him. It makes it all enjoyably new for yourself, as well. However, you can't be blamed for wanting just a little more.


	4. Chapter 4

You slip a thumb into his mouth and, after a moment, he sucks on it without further instruction from you. You've thrown this in a few times, practice just in case you wished to take in the extra step. You remove it a few times just to watch him lean forward in search of it again, eyes closed and still dizzy with sensation. And then, the third time, you slip your cock into his mouth instead.

He lets out another whimper and seizes on it. He is immediately bent on your pleasure, and this alone makes you happy you haven't turned more of your wiles to destroying him. You have not had someone focused on you in... perhaps never, really. You haven't wanted one. Physical contact for you has been, at your own insistence, brief and formal- until Pickle Inspector, who somehow bypasses it all.

His mouth is very wet and very hot, and he is very eager. You clasp a hand to the back of his head, but you don't try to control him. You just, for the moment, enjoy the physical sensations as your nerves react, and the emotional ones, as your mind does. You break it off when you realize you've let out a low moan, appreciatively long. There is enjoying yourself, and then there is demonstrating your own weakness.

You pull out. "Turn around please." When Inspector (in a motion that fills you with amazement at his perfect submission) opens his mouth and leans forward, as if if he just begs a little you'll put your cock back in his mouth, you seize his jaw. "Please do not ask me to repeat myself, Inspector," you tell him, and he obeys. It is clear, though, that he has no idea why you've asked it.

He is on his hands and knees, bony ass towards you, and you push him down, the right place in his back to drive his arms and face to the mattress. You drag your fingers back down his spine towards you. He shudders deliciously when they pass the blue panties, and takes a gasping breath as you continue down his thighs. Quickly, as he recovers, you've got the bottle in hand and pouring a little of the slick lubricant into one hand. Then, aware this will breach one of the set-up traditions between you, you pull the panties down around his knees.

You've never done that before. Technically, you have both remained clothed through your little experiments, although he by a technicality alone. You certainly have never stripped down, but pulling his few little defenses away have a much greater effect. You smile at his sudden shock and the way he freezes up, and drip the slick stuff onto him.

The effect is immediate and charming; as soon as your slippery fingers slide through the crack of his ass, he gasps something sharp and startled and seizes up. It's more obvious than you can say that this is all entirely new to him, and your smile only gets more smug. You let your hand keep going, sliding smoothly over his balls and briefly caressing his shaft, jerking free now with no constraints. His tip is wet enough even without the lubricant your fingers spread. You trail it back again, and his moans are enough to fill the room. When you get back to where you started, his gasps are staggering and deep.

"I'm surprised nobody has done this to you before," you say easily, and worm the tip of a finger into him. He is painfully tight, as expected, but his shocked moans are a nice touch. "With all of... this," and you let your words take in the whole situation, his clothing and all, "I suppose I expected someone to have taken advantage of this before now."

"Th-this?" he asks, and his voice is trembling and high, his face buried in the blankets.

"You," you say. Your finger has twisted in up to the second knuckle, and you are contemplating adding a second finger.

"I suppose I'm simply surprised nobody has tried to fuck you yet, Inspector. You are so clearly asking for it."

He whimpers a response, perhaps a denial. It is hard to tell. A slicked second finger presses against his entrance.

"So weak. So afraid. So in need of others protection. I'm surprised the first goon to find you on your own didn't have you across a table in minutes." First knuckle, two fingers. His whimpers are high and constant. "Well," you amend, "I would be surprised if it hadn't happened. Are you telling me it hasn't, Inspector? That nobody has thrown you down and fucked you yet?" You use the harsher word intentionally. It has a physical effect; you can feel him clench, see his dick stiffen, every time you do.

"N-no," he answers, stretching the word out. "Nnn-nobody, I swear..."

"They don't know what they're missing," you say graciously, two fingers deep into him. "Perhaps I shouldn't keep our little meetings a secret after all. When you seem to enjoy it so much, I'd really be robbing you of the chance to be fucked by some random criminal you meet on the street. They tend to run in gangs, you know," and you trail off there, because his whimpers turn a little more miserable.

You really need him relaxed for this. You slip your other hand around him and begin stroking his cock, painfully hard and twitching. After a moment, he's moaning again, muffled in the blankets, and you slide your fingers slowly out of him. Then you get both hands on his ass, pull him gently towards you, and begin pushing yourself into him.


	5. Chapter 5

It takes a very long time, but you are patient. He is indescribably tight around you, clenching evenly and occasionally spasming. Few of your words and gestures can help him there; you suspect a state of complete tension is the Inspector's usual state. But, slowly and very carefully, you slide into him, and finally, once you're buried inside, he relaxes enough to begin rocking your hips against his.

It takes a few minutes for him to come around to it, but relatively quickly, he begins to moan again, short cries only a breath away from words and pleas. As for yourself, you make no noise, but you haven't been able to stop your lips from falling open and your head lolling back a little in sheer enjoyment. It's not like he can see your miniscule loss of control, and besides... it feels very good indeed.

You bend over him and grab his bony shoulders, using them as leverage as you scissor into him. (Scissors, you think. Scalpel. Rope. Inspector trussed with thin lines criss-crossing his delicate pale skin. You shiver.) His hands clench the blankets by his head and spasm there.

It has been long enough since you've done this that you might actually have finished before he did, had you not reached around him and stroked him off to the same rhythm you pounded into his ass. It didn't take much, just a few strokes and a quiet, tense phrase- "Inspector, I think I would like it if you came now." His slim body suddenly wires with your words and your hand around him, and he does finish on cue, letting out a short sharp series of sounds as his body is wracked with shudders and his cock empties into the blankets.

The fact that he follows even that instruction coils inside you and burns. He is so delicious, this collapsed broken man, entirely yours for the taking. You could ruin him, torture him, unmake him, and you would not need a single tool but your own words if you chose. But you wouldn't choose that- you would need to be touching him, making him enjoy his own destruction as much as you did. He has to have known it would come; one doesn't live such a miserable life without recognizing it. He is a genius. He has to have considered his end.

You would make him thank you for it, and he would, and he would _mean it_. Guileless and beautiful and vulnerable and addicting and _yours_ \- and then you are finishing too, with a quiet but uncontrollable groan escaping you as your body dissolves into ecstasy and endorphins and your mind bubbles into nothing.

At some point, you suppose, you extract yourself and collapse beside him, for you wake up in a pose you are uncomfortably unaccustomed to. You are wrapped around Pickle Inspector, body formed to his and your arm flung over him and pulling him close. Your mouth is pressed to his shoulder and your head inclined into his cloud of messy hair at the back of his neck. The Inspector is, you think, sleeping, regular shallow breathing and relaxed limbs under your arm.

You do not think you have ever cuddled with anyone before. It seems entirely unlike you, though for the moment your brain is not quite awake enough to figure out why. But you are nothing if not temperate, and you suppose, your thoughts distant and not entirely recognizable to you, that there is a time and a place for everything. After all, it is sometime after three on a Sunday, and you don't exactly have your hands full.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Control](https://archiveofourown.org/works/277601) by [Derevenko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Derevenko/pseuds/Derevenko)




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